Lawrence Watt-Evans - War Surplus 01 - The Cyborg And The Sorcerers

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THE CYBORG AND THE SORCERERS
Copyright © 1982 by Lawrence Watt-Evans
ebook ver. 1.0
Dedicated to my father, Gordon Goodwin Evans
Chapter One
HE LAY BACK ON THE ACCELERATION COUCH AND WONDERED idly whether he had
been officially decommissioned, and whether anybody left alive had the authority to decommission him.
He had no idea, and there was no way he could find out. He had been under total communications
silence when the D-series destroyed Old Earth's military—and probably its civilization as well—and since
then, of course, there had been no signal at all from his home base on Mars. There could be little doubt
that his superiors were all long dead; if the war hadn't killed them, the passage of time would have. The
fourteen years of subjective time he had spent in space worked out to about three hundred years of
outside tune, and he doubted very much that anyone on Old Earth had been making breakthroughs in
geriatrics after the war was lost.
In fact, it was entirely possible that there was no one at all left alive on Mars or Old Earth. Even if he
chose not to believe the enemy propaganda broadcasts he had picked up all those years ago claiming
total victory, he had overheard enough ordinary ship-to-ship chatter to know that his side had lost the
war quite decisively. That didn't mean that the other side had won, but it did mean that the world he had
grown up in was gone forever.
None of this proved be hadn't been decommissioned; there might be enough odd survivors scattered
about to have formed a successor government, and it was possible that some general somewhere, in a fit
of tying up loose ends, had put an official stop to the IRU program.
Of course, it didn't matter what anybody said or did, or what was legally or technically true. As long as
he and his damned computer hadn't received their release code they were still an IRU, and as long as
they hadn't received their recall code they would continue their current open-ended reconnaissance. It
didn't matter in the slightest whether he had been decommissioned or not, because if he tried to do
anything about it the computer would burn out his brain.
If he had been left to his own devices he would have surrendered long ago, immediately after he learned
that his side had lost and Old Earth's rebellious colonies had conquered the mother world. He had tried
to convince the computer that that was the sensible thing to do, that there was no point in fighting on. He
had tried to explain that there was no one left alive who knew their release code or recall code.
The computer hadn't cared at all. Its programming was very explicit in forbidding anything resembling
surrender, and it reminded him unnecessarily that it was programmed to kill him if he disobeyed that
programming. The Command's method of ensuring the loyalty of its IRU cyborgs and making certain that
none of them fell alive into enemy hands was very simple; any attempt at surrender, or any sign of
cooperation if captured, and the thermite bomb at the base of his skull would go off. They had assured
him that such a death would be quite slow and painful, and he had believed every word. At the time he
even thought it a good and clever idea; since the D-series, he had cursed it at great length.
It didn't matter at all whether he had been decommissioned or not, but it was something to think about,
and after fourteen years alone with his ship that was a precious commodity.
He hadn't been in space all that time, of course; there had been half a dozen planetfalls. Unfortunately, in
accordance with his orders, they had all been on enemy worlds, with the computer rigorously enforcing
the strictures against fraternization with the enemy. He had remained alone, regardless of how many
people he encountered.
It didn't bother him too much. He had been selected, after all, to be able to endure all the hardships that
might befall an Independent Reconnaissance Unit cyborg, and loneliness was one of those
hardships—perhaps the worst of them. Contrary to the popular myth, to the superman image the
government press spread that attracted so many candidates, there was no need for an IRU pilot to be a
perfect physical specimen with the build of the proverbial Greek god; in fact, such a physique would be a
definite disadvantage in the undercover work an IRU might have to perform, as it would be far too likely
to attract notice. It wasn't the body that was important, because regardless of what a candidate started
with he would be rebuilt, his skeleton reinforced with steel, his muscles stripped and reconstructed, his
nervous system rewired to inhuman speed and accuracy, all without changing his appearance.
It was his mind that had to be special. Drugs and hypnotic conditioning could do only so much; modern
neurosurgery and hormone regulation helped, but still, only certain rare individuals had the sort of mind
that could adapt to the demands put upon it as an IRU. There was the loneliness, first and foremost, and
the incredible boredom of piloting a one-man ship between the stars.
It was known right from the start that an interstellar war would have to drag on for decades, while the
ships from each side crossed the vast empty spaces between stars. The speed of light, as Einstein had
long ago explained, was an absolute limit on starship velocity. Human technology still remained below
that limit, so that journeys to even the nearest stars took years—and Old Earth had spread her colonies
beyond the nearest stars. The contraction of time experienced at near-light velocities helped
considerably, so that a human being could make a voyage of several light-years in a few subjective
months, but still, those months added up. Ordinary craft carried a dozen people at the very least, who
frequently came to hate each other—but who were not alone. IRU ships were strictly solo. The pilot of
an IRU had to be able to survive those months and years alone without quite going mad.
The drugs and hypnosis helped. After fourteen years, though, they didn't help much.
Besides handling the loneliness, an IRU cyborg had to be capable of doing his job; he had to be a
starship pilot, an interstellar navigator, an assassin, a spy, a saboteur, a soldier. The IRU fleet was the
elite of Old Earth's military, and was expected to do everything too complex or too subtle to be handled
by brute force—not that the Command had been stinting of brute force; an IRU ship carried as much
armament as could be crammed into it
He had gone over all this more often than he could count; whenever an entertaining train of thought
petered out, he found himself reviewing once again why he needed to be entertained in the first place. He
was an isolated survivor of a defeated military force, one of Old Earth's elite; he was IRU 205,
code-named Slant.
It occurred to him, as it sometimes did, that he hadn't always thought of himself in those terms; there had
been a tune, long ago, when he had been a civilian. His name had been ... oh, what was it? He had
forgotten again. His hypnotic conditioning was supposed to blank out any memories of civilian life that
might interfere with his efficient functioning, which generally meant everything relating to him as a specific
individual. They had left all his impersonal knowledge of events and behavior on the grounds that it could
be useful. They had erased his old identity— but the conditioning had been done fourteen years ago,
fourteen years without reinforcement, far longer than it was meant to last, and he could sometimes
remember his old name. He had been Samuel Turner, a nondescript North American sort of name, and
he knew in an abstract way that he had grown up in North America, mostly in the northeastern area. He
remembered streets, schools, parks, and a few years of college—but no names, no individual faces, no
family life.
Trying to remember his name was an interesting diversion; enough of a block lingered to ensure that he
never retained it for more than a few minutes. Once, several years earlier, he had developed an irrational
fear that he might forget it permanently. This had been shortly after he had first managed to recall it at all,
and he had had some idea that it might someday matter to know it. He had written it down somewhere,
and had not looked at it since; it was comforting, in a minor way, to know that it was safely recorded. It
kept the game of trying to remember it from becoming too frustrating; he could always reassure himself,
when the name was reluctant to come forth, that he could dig out the note he had stuck in one of his
books and read it. Knowing that made frustration bearable, and sooner or later the name would always
come to him; he had never yet had to try and find the note, the exact location of which he had long since
forgotten.
Having remembered his old name, he lost interest in it, and as his attention turned to other things he
promptly forgot it again, as swiftly as ever.
He looked at the glass-fronted bookcase he had bolted to the forward bulkhead, which looked
incredibly out of place in the sleek control cabin. It was jammed full of old bound books, mostly
paperback novels and art histories, many of which held notes he had written to himself—one such note
consisting simply of his name, whatever it was. He had spent his entire enlistment bonus on furnishing the
ship, and most of the money had gone for the archaic cabinet and old-fashioned printed volumes. He
derived a certain special enjoyment from handling the books that a computer library printout didn't
provide; the action of turning the pages gave him a feeling of progress that the steady crawl of words on a
screen or a calm recitation by the computer didn't, a feeling that he had accomplished something when he
finished reading the book. He also found it easier to flip back pages by hand when he wanted to check
back for something than to locate it in the computer.
And of course the art books had those lovely old flat, glossy photographs, far more appealing than any
images the computer could conjure up. His computer had been designed for military use; it could pilot a
ship, plan tactics, target and fire its weapons, analyze enemy ships or installations—but the fidelity in its
video and holographies left something to be desired, except when he used the direct-control linkage,
which he found uncomfortable and used as little as possible.
Therefore, despite the jokes his compatriots had made about his reading habits, he had stocked the
bookcase and brought it along, and there it was. He bad read every book in it at least twice, studied
every photograph over and over. He had similarly exhausted the computer's library, both text and
video—at least, he thought he had; it was hard to be certain. He had definitely gone through every title
that sounded the least bit interesting. There was little else to do while the computer was piloting.
It occurred to him that he had spent all his time lately in the control cabin or the galley or the shower;
perhaps he could find something to interest him in one of the other compartments. Perhaps it was time to
rotate the decor in the control cabin.
He looked around the ovoid room. The thick chameleon fur carpeting that lined all the walls—and the
floor and ceiling, which were indistinguishable from the walls—was a rich golden yellow, and had been
for weeks. Three bright nylon tapestries were hooked into the carpet, one on either side and one directly
opposite the bookcase; cylindrical lightbars were extruded from various points around the room,
providing a pleasantly diffuse illumination. Fur carpet, bookcase, tapestries, lightbars—that was the entire
room, except for the acceleration couch he lay on and the direct-control cable that was attached to it He
wondered if perhaps he could have spent his money better.
Of course, he had other furnishings in the aft storage compartments. There were several statuettes and
small sculptures, and an assortment of hangings for the walls— everything from simple watercolors to
tuned crystal-and-wire matrices that droned eerie music when blown on, either by Slant or by the ship's
air circulation system.
It probably was time to rotate furnishings; the tapestries had had their turn. He could mount a few
statuettes on lightbars; there were some electrostatic adhesive disks somewhere on board that would
keep them secure on such makeshift pedestals.
It might, he thought, be a welcome change just to have different colors; he thought a command to the
computer, and the golden chameleon fur turned glossy black. That was certainly more dramatic, with the
extruded lightbars in bright contrast to the walls; the tapestries stood out vividly, red and blue and gold.
The bookcase, haphazardly packed with multicolored bindings, stood out too clearly against the dark
background; it looked sloppy. He turned the fur white.
That was better. The lightbars were scarcely visible, and although the bookcase still stood out, it seemed
quietly dark now instead of bright and rowdy.
As usual, playing with the chameleon fur aroused his artistic interests. He had studied art history in college
mostly because the courses happened to fit his schedule neatly—a detail of civilian life that he had, oddly,
been allowed to remember—but he did have a genuine interest in color, form, and composition. That was
why he had all the books and art objects; he had, he recalled, fancied himself something of a scholar in
the artistic area, back when he was young and naive. He had thought that when the war was over he
could retire honorably and spend his days studying mankind's attempts to create beauty.
Instead he was still out in space, crawling his way across the galaxy, playing out the role of spy and
saboteur on behalf of an extinct nation, studying each world's capacity to destroy other words.
It could be worse; at least he was primarily interested in military targets. His mission was to determine of
each world he came across whether it was capable of launching an attack on Old Earth, and where such
capability existed, to destroy it if possible. He was to capture any new weapons he came across, so that
they could be duplicated by his side back on Mars. It was not a particularly bad job, if one had to be an
IRU. He had heard that some of his compatriots had been assigned terror missions, with instructions to
destroy whatever they found and slaughter whoever they could; that was the sort of assignment he could
not have handled. He wondered whether any of those IRUs were still, like himself, wandering about,
unable to surrender. He hoped that there were none, that any such that might have existed were all long
dead. He could justify his actions to some extent on the grounds that he was destroying war machinery,
and therefore promoting peace, but there could be no justification for simply wreaking as much havoc as
possible.
Of course, he knew his own justification was just a rationalization; he fought on because he had to, to
survive, and probably a terrorist IRU would do the same.
That line of thought was depressing, leading back again to the prospect of having his brain burned out if
he tried to surrender; he dropped it and looked about at the white walls. The tapestries stood out in dark
contrast, and he decided white was too harsh. He was considering light blue, trying to envision it before
he actually tried it, when a chime sounded, the computer's warning signal.
He started. It had been months since he had heard anything—really heard, through his ears—except the
steady, quiet hum of the ship going about its business, and the little rustles and mumps he made in going
about his own.
"What's up?" he asked the computer. He spoke aloud, unnecessarily, and his voice sounded strange in
his ears.
"Ship is now entering a star system. Standard procedure calls for cyborg unit to assume control," it
replied silently through the telepathic device in his skull.
Slant grunted and reached for the direct-control cable at the head of the couch. He had been
disconnected for months, maybe years, letting the computer run the ship since they had left the last
system, and his hair had grown down over the socket in the back of his neck; he pulled the hair aside and
plugged the cable in. It took a moment's effort; he was out of practice and had to work entirely by feel,
not having eyes in the back of his head. He suspected that the long disconnection had let his body's
natural growth and healing processes twist the socket a bit out of line, as well. Eventually, though, the
thousands of phi-contacts slid home, and he was in control of the ship, hooked directly into the main
computer as well as in telepathic radio contact with it through the terminal in his brain.
It took two or three seconds before his piloting skills came back; for a moment the data came through as
a jumbled mass of sensation. Then his conditioning took over, unscrambling the signals, and he felt the
ship as his body, felt the gravity-well of the star-sun ahead, knew exactly the ship's relative velocity,
knew what radiation, electromagnetic or otherwise, was reaching the ship. The interstellar hydrogen that
served as some of the fuel for the fusion drive was much thicker here; that was usual in the neighborhood
of a star.
He was decelerating steadily; the near-light velocities that were necessary for interstellar travel were
downright dangerous within a system, where meteors, asteroids, or even small uncharted moons or
planets might get in one's way. Although the computer had, of course, been slowing the ship for weeks,
his speed still seemed uncomfortably great; an outer planet slipped by too quickly to examine properly,
though he noted it was an ordinary gas giant of unimpressive size.
This system, the computer informed him, was listed as enemy-held and heavily populated. An attack
force of conventional warships had been sent to this area, but there was no record of what had become
of it, no indication whether or not it had reached this system.
He stepped up the deceleration and turned the scanners ahead, so that the next planet provided rather
more information. According to the records, this one had a Marslike climate and had been lightly settled
at last contact
Slant found no evidence of life; there were no lights on the nightside, no radio emanations, no detectable
electromagnetic radiation at all. There were a great many craters, not of particularly natural appearance,
and considerable residual radioactivity.
It seemed that the war had reached this system. Regretfully, he settled back and waited for the next
planet to come into range. Records indicated that this next one was the major population center, with
some two billion people at last count. It was the second planet out, and assuming its orbit hadn't changed
and had been accurately recorded in the first place, it would be found on the far side of the sun. By
traveling in a hyperbolic path down close to the star, he could use its gravity to further decelerate the
ship.
Accordingly, he took the ship in near the sun, and shortly thereafter approached the second planet at a
velocity low enough that there was no perceptible difference between his subjective time and the time on
the planet's surface.
The world swam slowly toward him, and he studied it closely.
There were no radio emanations, no large electrical fields, no microwaves, no sign of any technology or
industry. Looping around the nightside, there were no lights above the level of a Class III town, but there
were lights; there were hundreds of tiny, flickering lights, just barely detectable.
There was a good deal of background radioactivity. Slant guessed that the planet had been bombed
back to barbarism but not utterly depopulated; those faint, unsteady lights could be campfires or small
firelit towns.
He saw nothing of any interest here. He would be moving on, then, without landing. It bad happened
before; he had been through two systems where he found nothing worthy of his attention. He suggested
as much to the computer. It disagreed, and drew his attention to the planers gravitational field.
He had not given that any thought, since he knew of nothing man-made that had any significant effect on
gravity; now he shifted his perceptions, and as the ship made another elongated orbit around the planet
he studied the gravitational field.
It was slightly uneven, of course, with a few of the slowly shifting irregularities that indicated seismic
activity. However, there was also a sprinkling of tiny localized disturbances; he saw them" as a scattered
array of little sparkles, like a swarm of lightning bugs seen from half a kilometer away.
That made no sense.
These were not movements; those he could have explained, since anything that moved large masses
about altered the local gravity slightly. In these spots, though, the intensity of gravity seemed to flicker.
There was no movement in any direction, but a variation in strength as if huge amounts of matter were
disappearing and reappearing, flashing in and out of existence.
It made no sense at all.
"Computer," he asked silently, "could that be some sort of natural phenomenon?"
"No such phenomenon has been recorded or theorized."
"Any chance of instrument error?" After fourteen years, one couldn't expect every system to be in perfect
working order; there had been various minor failures previously.
"Error is highly unlikely. No discrepancies or anomalies register in measurements of any other body."
"That's really weird." He spoke aloud, in a soft murmur.
"Analysis: It must be assumed that these anomalies represent human action. This system is listed as
enemy-held, so it must be assumed that these anomalies represent enemy action. No such anomalies have
been encountered previously, and library references indicate the theoretical possibility of a device called
'antigravity' with military applications, so it must be assumed that these anomalies represent enemy
weapons research. Orders require that all detected enemy weapons research be investigated
immediately."
"Weapons research? That's stupid. This planet hasn't got any technology; how could its people have
developed anti-gravity? If they have antigravity, why aren't they using it for space travel?"
"Information insufficient Analysis remains unchanged."
"Look, I don't want to investigate here; it's a primitive planet now, whatever it was before, and that can't
be weapons research. It has to be some sort of natural phenomenon."
"That conclusion is contraindicated. Take appropriate action immediately or override option will be
exercised."
"What? Oh, no, you don't!" He reached up to tear the plug from his neck but was not fast enough; there
was a wrenching mental flash, and he lost control of both the ship and his own body. His limbs twitched
spastically as the computer assumed control; then he lay still. He was able to use both the ship's sensory
apparatus and his own, but all movement, even so much as blinking or breathing, was now under the
computer's direct control; accordingly, his breathing was slow and mechanically steady, and he blinked
exactly once every five seconds. He watched in helpless paralysis as the ship slid down from its
observation orbit into a landing approach and swept across a vast expanse of dark ocean.
It was perfectly clear to him that gravity disturbances notwithstanding, this planet had been bombed from
the nuclear age back to the level of bow and arrow. The computer, unfortunately, was not programmed
to pay attention to such things. It assumed a high-level technology everywhere—or rather, it assumed
nothing but acted according to orders based on false assumptions. Those damnable orders had kept him
a wandering exile for years, and were now plunging him into a situation where he would probably have to
roam over half a world killing innocent people who happened to get in his way before he could convince
the computer that there was no secret enemy installation here developing antigravity weapons to use
against the ruins of Old Earth. He had no idea what the disturbances actually were, and had no strong
desire to find out; if there was anything on this backward burned-out world that could kill him, it was
probably whatever was making those anomalies.
He had little choice, however. When the override released a few kilometers above the surface, to allow
human discretion in choosing a landing site, he cooperated and made no attempt to head back into space.
It would only have resulted in another use of the override, and if he was going to have to play spy again
he might as well get it over with.
The planet was very Earthlike, with somewhat more than half its surface covered by ocean, the remainder
a patchwork of green vegetation, golden beaches and deserts, and the gray and brown and black of bare
rock in the mountains and badlands. There were icecaps, smaller than Old Earth's, at each pole; his orbit
took him over an edge of one, though he was unsure whether it was north or south, having become
disoriented while under the override. The computer's records told him that the planet had mild seasons,
slightly less than terrestrial gravity, and four continents, of which only the largest was known to be thickly
inhabited. He was coming down over this continent now; it was enjoying the late summer of its
four-hundred-day-plus year.
He skimmed past the coastal plain and into the foothills of a low, ancient, worn-down mountain range
that the computer had picked as his landing area. The ship was still traveling at high velocity, at least for
atmospheric travel, though it was decelerating fiercely; anyone below was probably seeing the biggest,
brightest shooting star in years. If there were any radar, or modar installations, though, they would see
nothing; the ship was screened against every form of electronic detection its designers had known.
The hills below him were blanketed in thick forests, a deep, ominous sea of Earthlike trees—probably
imported from Old Earth when the planet was first settled and terraformed. He turned the ship and more
or less paralleled the mountains, continuing to decelerate.
A dim spot of orange light flashed by beneath, and he had the computer play back in slow motion and
high magnification the record that was automatically kept of everything detected within "enemy" systems.
The light was a campfire, with a group of fur-clad men sleeping huddled about it. Spears and swords
were in evidence; this was apparently not one of the worlds where a return to barbarism had brought
peaceful coexistence.
Even at stop-frame and maximum magnification he could make out no details that seemed significant; he
dropped the image and asked if the ship's records had any evidence indicating when the planet's
civilization was destroyed. There was nothing very helpful; the only relevant item was that the war fleet
targeted for this system had been scheduled to arrive about six months after the D-series had hit back
home.
That was more than thirteen years ago by ship's time, and three hundred and four years ago by outside
time. This ever-increasing differential between himself and the rest of the universe was something that
Slant had long ago accepted, even though he did not really understand it. Relativity was beyond him, but
he had had plenty of opportunity to observe its effects.
He was low over the mountains, and turned his attention to getting the ship down in one piece. He
suspected that the computer would interpret any increase in altitude as an attempt to avoid landing and
use the override again, so that he had to dodge between the highest peaks instead of rising above them.
Of course, in allowing him to choose the landing site, the computer left him free to choose the worst
possible place; he had done so on occasion in the past, as a petty attempt at revenge. The computer
hadn't cared in the least; that was outside its programming. This time he didn't bother, but just set down in
the first clearing that looked large enough in the area the computer had selected. None of the myriad
systems failed. Fourteen years without maintenance made that something that Slant no longer took for
granted, but the ship landed softly and smoothly and exactly where he wanted it. It immediately set about
camouflaging itself; he left that to the computer and its subsidiary machines, unplugged himself, and went
to the galley for a meal.
He had come down just on the night side of the dawn line, landing by infrared rather than visible light; by
the time he had eaten the computer reported light in the east. He was resigned to the task of scouting out
the "enemy weapons research," but he refused to be rushed, and took his own time in choosing supplies
from the lockers.
He dressed himself in leather pants and a fur vest, which he hoped would not be too conspicuously alien
to the local inhabitants; he could find no shirt that seemed suitable, and the computer reported warm
weather, so he left it at that. It was very odd to wear clothes again; with every movement he was
uncomfortably aware of the leather and fur brushing and rubbing against his skin. He considered a pair of
boots for several minutes before pulling them on; his feet immediately felt cramped and sweaty, but he
had no idea how much walking he would be doing, nor what sort of terrain he might encounter. Bare feet
might not be suitable.
Remembering the swords and spears he had seen, he decided that he had best be armed; he dug out a
Bowie knife, and after due consideration chose an old-fashioned submachine gun from the rack of
firearms. The gun was perhaps the most terrifying weapon he had, or at least the most startling, with its
chattering roar, blue smoke, and bright flash, and was useful at a considerable range and against large
numbers—though in some situations it was undoubtedly less effective than a hand laser or a snark.
He found a belt, donned it, and stuck the knife in it; the gun he slung over his shoulder. He tied a leather
pouch to the belt, stuffed a few foodbars and other miscellaneous supplies in it, and decided that he was
adequately equipped.
There was a mirror in the shower; he stopped in and checked to see whether his long brown hair hid the
socket in the back of his neck. It seemed to; he brushed it back with his fingers, trying to arrange it so it
would not fall aside. He doubted very much that the locals would take kindly to a stranger with a
gleaming chunk of metal and plastic embedded in his flesh.
When he had convinced himself that the socket would not show, he marched out the airlock onto the
ship's wing.
The early-morning air was cool and pleasant; a slight breeze blew against his bare chest The natural
currents and rich scent of the surrounding pine forest were positively delightful after years of stagnant,
recycled air smelling of metal and plastic and algae, and he breathed deeply as he looked about.
He had landed well on the inland side of the mountains, and the low, rounded peaks reared up in the
east, great black shadows against the rosy pink of the dawn sky. On all sides of the ship there stood tall
green grass, utterly Earthlike, and beyond the grass was a ring of pine trees, likewise completely
terrestrial. Slant surmised that the planet had been lifeless before it was colonized; if not, the Terran
flora—and probably fauna—must have driven out whatever was there previously. That was not an
unusual pattern on colony worlds.
The morning sun lit the grass, and dew glittered on every side—but only at a distance. The heat that
radiated from the ship had boiled off all moisture for a dozen feet in all directions, and Slant guessed that
the ship's approach path was burned brown, if not black, from the heat of its passage. He could feel the
warmth of the wing's metal through his boots, and it occurred to him that it might be a good idea to get
off. He jumped carefully to the ground, landing with a great rustling in the tall grass. He regained his feet,
and saw that the grass reached well above his knees.
A soft whining drew his attention back to the ship; the service robots had finished camouflaging and were
reentering their storage compartments, leaving the vessel smeared with mud and draped in plastic vines
twined with real, freshly plucked grass. It still stood out dramatically in the center of the broad, level
clearing, but was no longer immediately recognizable as a starship; the metal did not gleam, and the sharp
edges and corners were softened.
Looking back under the wing, he saw that his guess had been correct; there was a trail of burned grass
and scorched earth behind the vessel. He considered pointing it out to the computer and suggesting that it
be camouflaged as well, but decided against it. The ship could take care of itself.
Scanning quickly around the edge of the clearing,' he saw no sign of a road or trail.- There was no
evidence other than himself and his ship that any human being had ever been anywhere near this spot He
wondered why there was a clearing in the first place; was it completely natural?
It didn't matter, of course. It didn't seem to matter what direction he took, either, so he began marching
directly away from the ship.
"A large concentration of anomalies representing enemy weapons research lies approximately one
hundred kilometers to the planetary northeast. This landing area was chosen for that reason. Movement
in that direction is indicated."
Slant made a slight noise of startlement; the computer's monotone mental voice seemed out of place now
that he was out of the ship. He stopped, took his bearings from the rising sun, and pointed off to his right
"That way?"
"Affirmative."
He shrugged, turned, and marched on, the pouch and knife slapping his thighs, the submachine gun
weighing on his shoulder.
Chapter Two
THE FOREST WAS ALMOST ENTIRELY PINE; SLANT NO longer remembered the differences
among the various species, but he amused himself by noting the many varieties he encountered. He
paused occasionally to study types he hadn't seen before, ignoring the computer's objection to such
delays. He found a few trees he suspected were not natural terrestrial species but that were similar
enough that he guessed them to be mutants or hybrids rather than anything native to this planet Given his
former government's liking for enhanced-radiation weapons of various sorts, this world must have been
largely a radioactive wasteland for a time; it was hardly surprising if a few viable mutations had arisen.
There was very little underbrush, due to the thick carpet of pine needles, and despite the seemingly
endless rolling hills walking was easy once he had left the tall grass and entered the shade of the forest He
found himself enjoying his stroll very much and began idly humming to himself after a while, only to be
hushed by a warning from the computer. It took this war game seriously; programming forbade anything
that might draw unwanted attention.
Golden sunlight filtered through the trees around him, lighting earth and branch and fallen needles in
several shades of brown and gray, and gradually wanning the air. By noon he was glad that he hadn't
found a shirt he liked in his supplies. The decision had been based on his lack of one primitive enough,
but the weather was hot enough that he would have removed it anyway. He kept the fur vest open and
loose, and wished he had worn shorts instead of the leather pants; he was perspiring freely, for the first
time in years, and it made him feel slimy and unclean. He was not used to such varying temperatures; the
air aboard ship was kept within a range of five degrees.
Noon had been quick in coming; he realized the day must be well under the twenty-four hours of Old
Earth's, the standard that he had almost always lived with, whether naturally on Old Earth, artificially in
the underground complex on Mars, or from habit aboard ship. Either that or his tune sense was further
off than he had thought; perhaps his habits had gradually shifted over the years. He asked the computer,
which informed him that the local day was in fact only slightly over twenty hours.
The sun was just past its zenith—which had been somewhat south of straight overhead, as he was well
up in the northern hemisphere and it was midway between the summer solstice and the autumnal
equinox—when he came across a road. It was reasonably broad and looked as if it might once have
been paved, but only a narrow path down the center showed signs of recent use.
He looked both ways and saw nothing but more road, winding off in either direction until it was lost
among the trees. Still, it was a good sign; roads invariably led somewhere, and this one, which curved
northeastward off to his right, might well lead where he wanted to go.
He was tired and hot, though, and not inclined to march onward immediately; instead he sat down by the
roadside, took some foodbars from his pouch, and ate lunch.
Standard procedure called for him to live off the land and use the ship's stores only in emergencies, a
course he preferred anyway, in view of the taste of the processed algae he ate on board; he had,
therefore, brought only a few bars. He wished he had more; he couldn't eat pine sap, and as yet he had
seen not so much as a chipmunk by way of animal life. He had seen insects and various fungi and a few
vines and creepers, but he had no way of knowing which were edible—even those that matched
terrestrial life in appearance could be poisonous mutants. Besides, such foods weren't much more
appealing than algae. Sooner or later, though, he knew he would reach an inhabited area, and anything
the locals could eat, he could eat.
He was brushing the last crumbs from his lap when he first heard approaching hoofbeats.
He picked up the submachine gun and got quickly to his feet; the riders were approaching from the right,
摘要：

THECYBORGANDTHESORCERERSCopyright©1982byLawrenceWatt-Evansebookver.1.0Dedicatedtomyfather,GordonGoodwinEvansChapterOneHELAYBACKONTHEACCELERATIONCOUCHANDWONDEREDidlywhetherhehadbeenofficiallydecommissioned,andwhetheranybodyleftalivehadtheauthoritytodecommissionhim.Hehadnoidea,andtherewasnowayhecouldf...

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